Candle in the Wind
by Technomad
Summary: With all the others gone, the last veteran of Dumbledore's Army reflects on what it's like to be the very last survivor of them all.


Candle in the Wind

by Technomad

The last DA survivor's private thoughts about being the last of them all.

It's strange being the last of us.

I never really expected this. I wasn't the oldest of us, by a long shot-but there were younger members of the DA, and I had thought that most of us would last longer than we did.

The Healers say it was the effects of the Year of Darkness. They tell me that we were pushing our magic far too far, too fast, and the effects of those Dark spells that the Carrows were throwing around didn't help. At the time, we took a lot of pride in being able to take the iCruciatus/i without flinching, but doing it so often, before most of us were fully grown, took a toll. We aged more quickly than most wizards and witches do, and succumbed decades before most people would have expected it. Still, I have no regrets, none at all.

At least, I have no regrets for what we did. We did what we did, and I'd do it again, but, thank Merlin, it hasn't been necessary for us to step up to the plate for many decades. The younger generation's now running things, and they're doing a splendid job. No, I don't regret what we did, but I do regret that I'm the only one left. Other than Colin, that is-but I only ever see him when I get up to Hogwarts for the annual remembrance, and he's mainly occupied with his duties as the Gryffindor house ghost. We're always glad to see each other, and he loves to hear about my family, but he's got his life-or is it "unlife?" I've never been sure-and I have mine.

Even so, though, there are times, these last decades, when being the last one wears on me. At every patriotic celebration, they drag me out and sit me up on the platform, like some sort of good-luck totem. For some reason, they don't ask me to give speeches any more, but I have to sit up there, try to look attentive, and listen to politicians drone on endlessly. Even worse, I have to keep a straight face when they speak of my comrades-my _friends_, people I remember vividly-as though they were plaster saints and demigods. All they know of them is what's in the history books, or the long lists of names on the monuments-the simple one for the DA as an organisation on the corner of the Hogwarts grounds, or the one for all those who died, in Diagon Alley-the one with the statue of the seated, weeping witch on top of it. I named that statue "Hogwarts Mourns"-after all, all those who died were Old Boys and Girls of the school.

I remember them as they were. The younger generation sees them, if at all, as half-legendary heroes and heroines. They mention Ernie Macmillan, and they speak of him as an abstraction. I remember his muscular torso-oh, I never thought I could pry him away from Morag, and then Susan, but I'm allowed to enjoy the view when I managed to catch him with his shirt off a few times, aren't I?-and his inner gentleness. I see a lot of him in Cecily, and in her children and grandchildren.

Susan Bones Macmillan Finnegan-to the younger generation, she's this legendary Lady Bountiful, the driving force behind half-a-dozen charities for things as varied as habitat preservation for magical creatures to locating and identifying magical children early on. That last one has saved some children who were born magical from nasty situations where they were being raised in severely sub-standard conditions. I'm the only one now who knows why she called that one the "Merope and Thomas Riddle Fund." I remember her as a young mother, looking down as little Cecily nursed at her breast with this expression of absorbed contentment. I wished Ernie could have seen that. Who knows? Perhaps he did. Very soon now, I should be able to ask him.

Neville Longbottom never got all the glory he deserved, which suited him just fine. He was always a humble gardener at heart, and never happier than when he was fiddling around with plants. When he died, all of Hogwarts mourned him sincerely. I remember Hannah, at his funeral-she looked so lost. I wasn't a bit surprised when she joined him before the year was out.

And, of course, Harry Potter. Hero a dozen times over, and yet always a modest person. He had glory whether he wanted it or not, and unlike his best mate, he knew all too well the price that had to be paid for it. His funeral was a huge state occasion, and while I was standing as an honour guard at the side of his coffin, I couldn't help but think about how much he'd have hated all the fuss over him. He, Hermione and Ron all went in the same year.

When new people find out who I am, it's amusing to see the reactions-some of them start acting like they think they should kowtow before me, and others start treating me like I was some sweet old dear who needs to be protected from the icky facts of life. Children! When I was younger than most of the people I see around me, I faced off werewolves and Acromantulae with my two comrades, wandless-I do think that there's very few things that can shock me. Not at this time of the day, at least.

My own children and grandchildren, at least, know that I'm tougher-minded than the stereotypes about people my age would make me out to be. Watching them grow up has been one of the great joys of my life. When I waved my children goodbye at Platform 9 3/4, I understood why Daddy always smiled and looked cheerful until the train had gone, before Apparating home so that nobody could see him cry.

These days, I don't weep. I've been to too many funerals, and I am long since cried out. As the ranks of DA survivors thinned, we made more of an effort to attend every funeral. I've helped cover so many of my friends with earth, and now none of them are left to do the same service for me.

When I figured out that I was the last one, I left strict instructions. When I'm gone, instead of burying me, they're to cremate me and scatter the ashes on Hogwarts grounds. I have many happy memories of my school days, and it pleases me to think that something of me will still be there. That way, the rule that "only the DA throws dirt on the DA" will be followed, even though I'm the last of us and have been for decades.

I'm young, by magical standards, but I can feel every one of my years. I'm glad I've had so long to see my children and grandchildren-and the descendants of my dear comrades of the DA-grow to strong, sturdy, magical adulthood, but when my time comes, I'll not be afraid to go.

After all, I'll see Daddy again, and Mummy-and who could be afraid to die, with such wonderful, brave, loyal comrades waiting for me in the next world?

END


End file.
